


The House on Larkin Lane

by Dryad



Series: Night Moves [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A LOT of violence, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, It'll be okay in the end, M/M, Omega Verse, Rating: NC17, Threats of Violence, so to speak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where fertility is everything, what happens when you can't conceive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The House on Larkin Lane

**Author's Note:**

> So I have to leave a few of the tags out, because spoilers. Feel free to re-read my [notes...](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/profile)
> 
> This fic may be triggering!! _**Please**_ message me if you have any questions whatsoever!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
"I left home for an empty space -"

~Folk Song Oblivion  
The Phantom Band  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

John Watson, freshly showered and dressed in naught but a robe and a towel around his neck, stepped out of the bathroom and onto the landing, then stopped short. Three doors down the hallway Thaddeus was ushering a woman into one of the bedrooms. He was glaring at John from behind her back, by which John immediately understood that he should get himself dressed and elsewhere right quick. Once Thaddeus closed the door John was off like the proverbial shot, quick-timing it to their bedroom, drawing on clean pants, jeans, vest and the mustard colored pullover Thaddeus insisted suited him. No shoes, because Thaddeus didn't want him to wear shoes unless they went out together, which was a rare enough occasion that John privately called it 'the twelfth of never'.

He took the narrow servants stairs down to the basement kitchen. Cat gave him a quick glance and a smile before returning her attention to her steaming pot of whatever that was on the hob. Though not a particularly fabulous cook himself, he did love being in a kitchen. The heart of the home, his Mum had always said. A proverb he had taken with him wherever he went. His unit had kidded him endlessly about it in the beginning, yet whose campfire did everyone come to when they were in the field? Damned skippy, as the Americans were wont to say.

And as much as he hated being stuck in the house, he did love its old, Victorian kitchen and huge black range. At some point the range had been transformed into a gas burner rather than coal, and he really liked the esthetic of it. It suited the kitchen, which had been redone with cream subway tiles laid halfway up the walls to meet a simple border of black tile. The refrigerator was industrial and huge, a silver rectangle two metres down the slate counter from the range. In the middle of the room, a giant wooden table. John often wondered if it was original to the house, as it was scarred and marked from countless hot pans and sharp knives. On the far wall was, in his opinion, a substandard hutch made of MDF and painted white. Blue-and-white dishes resided therein, many of them chipped, clearly not for use in the family dining room. Obviously they and the hutch had come in before his time - as with other items he had found here and there, he wondered who his predecessor had been, and under what circumstance they had left the house.

"There's porridge if you want it," Cat said, nodding towards a pot on an unlit back burner. "Boiled eggs in the wire basket on the table, and there's a plate of sliced melon and mint in the fridge. Otherwise it's toast and jam."

"Cheers," John replied, heading directly towards the eggs. He plucked one out and peeled it, discarding the shell in the small recycling bin near the sink. He ate it in neat little bites, torn between savoring the protein and getting in as much as he could. One egg down, one more to go, a third if he could manage.

"For god's sake, eat it, don't inhale it," Cat hissed. She looked back at her pot and swore, lowering the heat. "Hand me that thingie, would you?"

Looking from her fluttering hand to the counter - ah. He grabbed a balloon whisk from one of the jars of cooking implements and swallowed hard. Speaking through the paste of egg in his throat, he said, "This one?"

"You're a star," she muttered, staring into the depths of steam and whisking swiftly. "Can't break this one again, we're out of eggs for the week."

John eyed the third egg in his hand, started to put it back in the basket.

"Don't you dare, John Hamish Watson," she snapped, not even bothering to glance at him. "I want you to have that one, you're too thin as it is."

"Are you sure? I can easily put it back."

"Don't be ridiculous. I know what they're doing to you - shit, can you get me that strainer by the sink? No, the one with the cheesecloth? And the bowl, too? And that red spatula?"

John did as requested, watched her remove her pot from the heat and quickly place the strainer over the stainless steel bowl. Back to the pot, where she poured thick, cream-colored sauce into the strainer. She scraped the pot with the spatula, then set it to one side to press the sauce through the cheesecloth into the bowl.

"Pudding base," she answered to his unasked question. "Haven't added any flavouring to it yet. Go get yourself a bowl, you can mix some in to that porridge if you're having any."

Given the opportunity, John didn't hesitate. Cat had made the porridge with Scottish cut oats, ensuring nutty chewy goodness instead of the oaty slime he had been served in far too many canteens. The pudding was sweet and tasted of whole milk, but in a good way. Good thing he didn't have a sweet tooth, otherwise he could have eaten another entire bowl of the stuff. Still and all, he was pretty stuffed. Another glass of water wouldn't go amiss, however. Not the same as a cup of coffee, or better yet, a lovely cup of tea. There were some mornings where he rose from the cot with the scent of tea in his nostrils, the taste of tannin on his tongue.

Sometimes he thought that of all the things that had been taken away, he missed tea the most. Which was stupid, because there were far more important things, like freedom, and choice. The ability to do whatever the fuck he wanted, whenever the fuck he wanted to do it.

He heard the creak of the fifth riser of the stair and quickly placed the bowl and spoon in the sink, which he was just in time to turn and lean nonchalantly against. Crossing his arms, he casually looked up the light well, rubbing one foot against the other as Thaddeus came into the room.

"Our kitchen isn't the biggest, but I think you'll find we don't lack for anything," said Thaddeus.

"It _is_ small," said a soft female voice. "Good morning."

Having not been brought up to be rude, John had to reply. "Good morning," he said, making an attempt at a smile. Thaddeus' potential wife was tiny and birdlike, her bone structure so fine John wondered if she was even capable of making it through a heat. Her hair was very long and very blonde and she was very young - maybe her first heat had yet to come on? Even her dress was naive, a sleeveless, powder blue sheath with matching flats. No jewelry, not even earrings, and of course there was no makeup. Now that he knew all those movies and tv dramas were based very much in reality, the shock of seeing potential bondmates had lessened. To a degree. She was still unbearably young to be playing such a game.

Thaddeus put his hand between the girl's shoulders and ushered her further in to the kitchen. "Helene, this is Catherine, our chatelaine, and this is John. Say hello, John."

"'Lo," he said, smiling gamely. She nodded at Cat, then at him, and in an instant his opinion of her changed. For in the brief glimpse, he saw that his initial impression of her as naive was completely wrong. She knew what she was doing, her sharp gaze told him so, and not only that, she was greatly unimpressed with either Thaddeus or the house, perhaps both. Yes, she had plans, and if she _did_ contract with Thaddeus, not only would John be out on the streets, but Thaddeus was in for a big shock.

Thaddeus pointed towards the glass door. "Let me show you the garden."

The door closed firmly, leaving John and Cat to stare wide eyed at one another before both their shoulders started to shake with suppressed laughter.

Eventually Cat leaned on the counter, one hand to her chest. "Oh sweet Jesus, he's not gonna know what's hit him!"

"Oh god, get me out of this house, just let me see them afterwards, just once," John gasped. He wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to pull himself together before Thaddeus and Helene came back.

Cat sniffed, her mirth turning to sorrow as she gazed at him. "I'm so sorry, John."

He shrugged, suddenly struggling not to cry for real at her compassion. "It's not your fault. It's not like I knew what was going to happen to me."

"Still. It's a rotten thing, and you stuck here and you're so lovely."

"You'll give me airs above my station," he husked.

She smiled sadly at him, then turned her attention back to her pudding. Opening the long drawer under the counter, she said, "Beef tea and salad for your lunch, the Major's orders."

John grimaced. The beef tea was homemade, nutritious and tasty, and did nothing to stave his near constant hunger. A body needed more than soup and salad. All in the name of health, or so the Major said. Fetuses needed healthy parents, he said. True, John had been shot in Afghanistan, yet it had been the resultant infection that had nearly killed him. He had lost much of his fitness while recuperating, and then what had come after - yes, he had needed to regain his health. However, that was two years ago. Now he worked out for a few hours every day, practised yoga and meditation, saw Ella - oh god, _Ella_.

With a shake of his head he waved a goodbye at Cat and ran up the stairs as quick as a fox. In the room he shared with Thaddeus, he grabbed his netbook - which unfortunately was not actually connected to the internet - and then back down the wide front stairs to the front office where his twice weekly sessions were scheduled. He opened the door and of course, she was already there, seated in front of the desk, his chair placed precisely opposite. Stifling his irritation, he closed the door gently behind himself and sat down.

"Good morning, John."

"Morning," John said, making himself sit still. She was dressed in the blandest of colors; fawn skirt, shirt that peculiar shade of day-glo orange called 'melon' an old girlfriend of his had loved. Matching fawn cardigan with little pearl buttons, beige slingbacks with dark soles. Her feet had swelled over the front edge of the shoes, and given the time of day they were probably new, thus ill-fitting.

"I'll take that here," she said, leaning forward over her clipboard. She twisted a little to set the netbook on the desk, then resettled. "How have you been?"

"Fine," he said. He hated that oh-so-gentle inquiry. It was so fake, so patently false. "I haven't written anything new."

"Why not?"

"Because there isn't anything new to write about," No, John, no, too early to get snippy. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Sorry. I don't know what you want me to say."

She lifted one shoulder in an 'it doesn't matter' way. "Tell me your favorite thing to do in the day."

He shook his head. "I keep to routine. I get up, work out. Shower if it's a hard workout. Meditate, eat breakfast, walk in the garden if Peter is available. I have lunch with the Major or Thaddeus if he's home."

"And what do you do in the afternoon?"

"Read, mostly. I'm trying to learn Arabic, but it's hard without someone to speak to."

"Why not take an online course? Or sign on with the Open University, I'm sure they have something."

John smiled ruefully. "I'm not allowed the internet."

Ella made a gesture of assent. "Sorry, I'd forgotten."

He saw an opening and took it. "And here I thought _I_ was your only special snowflake."

"You're not my only client."

"Never said I was."

A comfortable silence fell, one in which John tried to think of something innocuous to tell her, that she could report back to the Major. And it was the Major, John had no doubt, who had any interest in John's mental health. Well, inasmuch as that would affect his parenting skills. Which reminded him - "Why am I still seeing you?"

"Major Sholto is paying me to see you," she said absently, rummaging through her notebook.

"But why? I won't be staying here forever."

At this, she stopped fiddling with the papers on her lap. "What do you mean?"

"Oh come on, you know very well that Thaddeus is shopping for an Omega wife. He brought one around just a little while ago. You should see her, she's pretty in a 'robbing the cradle' kind of way," he said, using air quotes. "She's smart though, I'll give her that."

"And this is the first time he's done this?"

"No, I think she's maybe the fourth or fifth?"

Ella pursed her lips and jotted something down. "Do you remember the names of the others?"

"There was a Lauren, and a Tamsin, possibly? Don't recall the last one, don't think we were introduced."

"Is why you think you're going to be replaced?"

"There's no 'thinking' about it," he answered, trying to keep the tone of disbelief out of his voice and failing completely. "Thaddeus is clear about what he wants, and it's not me."

"Have you thought about what you'll do if that does happen? And I'm not saying it will."

A sliver of ice pierced his belly, because he had been desperately thinking of other things besides that little scenario. Starting medical school, going into the Army, getting shot - those nearly paled by comparison. The thing was, he had no outside experience besides movies and tv of what had happened to him. There was no compatriot, no mentor to share personal knowledge. He had no true guide - and he trusted Ella only so far. After all, she was in the employ of his father-in-law and thus could only be expected to tell him things that worked in his father-in-law's favor.

"There are resources available to you," she said quietly. "You'll have your pension and a council flat. You might even find work as a GP."

John barked a bitter laugh. "Right, they'll just be jumping to hire a used up ex-Army doctor."

"You don't know that, John."

"I can hazard a guess."

She took a breath, hesitated, then met his steady gaze. "There are places for you to stay, when you feel the need."

He got to his feet, pain spiking through his hip. "I don't want to talk about this."

"John, you have to deal with it. It's part of your life, now, you can't just ignore it."

"I've got to go," he said, heading towards the door. He felt guilt at wasting her time, and then righteous anger. There was no way she could possibly understand. She could leave this house, meet a mate for lunch, go check her bank balance. Hell, he had an allowance - an _allowance_! He was thirty-two years old and had to take a minder with him when he went to relax in the fucking _garden!_

"I'm making another appointment for Thursday," Ella called. "I'll have some informa-"

The door cut her off mid-flow. John knew he would see her again. Standing in the hallway, he wished he could go out for a long walk, burn off the excess energy that was driving him a little crazy. Could be another panic attack, a few months had passed since he had last had one. Maybe the garden really was the ticket. _If_ he could find Peter. Otherwise he would have to go to the attic and do some yoga, meditate on the uselessness of his condition.

Ten minutes passed. John limped to the foyer and retrieved his cane. He limped to the library and then to the kitchen, where Cat was putting his meagre lunch together. He limped to the media room, he limped to the music room, he limped to Peter's room and knocked on the door to no answer. He limped back to the library and from there, to the Major's office.

"Hallo John, having a good day?"

John threw a salute before limping through the open door. The Major was one of those men who was probably a decent enough fellow who could have been a great man, but through caprice and lack of direction had instead fallen into being merely mediocre. He was happy with his lot in life and thought no more about it than John would consider an ant before he stepped on it.

The Major was tall, with waxy burn scars on the side of his face. Like John, he dressed with military precision, and his figure was still trim after years of civilian life. His desk was neat and tidy, the only sign of disarray the notepad and fountain pen he was using. Black ink and a spidery script. John was impressed. If he tried to use a fountain pen the only result would be smears and a black hand.

"Come sit, tell me what's on your mind."

John entered the office, remained standing. "I was just wondering if Peter was around."

"Not today, gone for an errand, won't be back until after dinner."

"Oh," said John. Disappointing, to say the least. "I'll leave you to your work, then. I'm off to study."

"Good man," commented the Major, picking up his pen again.

Leaving the door open precisely as much as when he had arrived and swallowing the tears - Jesus Christ, would the fucking crying never stop? How had it become that the littlest thing could set him off? Charlie Allen's leg had hurled into John's chest after Charlie had stepped on that IED and John's eyes barely watered. Now a commercial with a kitten looking all sad-eyed was enough to have him reaching for the tissues. Ella would say - Ella _had_ said - that he had been under a tremendous amount of stress for a long time and that it was no wonder that his reaction was physical. Still, crying?

On the top floor of the house were the old servants quarters, now turned into a gym. It was pretty fancy, with all the electronic doodads that were really just substitutes for a long run in the park, or a hike in the hills with a full kit strapped on. Nothing like picking your way down a mountain in the dark, trying to avoid stones rolling under your feet while being silent and carrying 35 kilos of necessary on your back. While wearing Army boots and body armour and a helmet and your trusty British Standard rifle.

Needs must, however. John put his cane on the padded bench and stripped off the jumper with distate. Mustard, horrible color for an item of clothing. Whoever had picked it for him (for it certainly was not Thaddeus no matter what the gift tag said) truly hated him. The feeling was mutual.

He eyed his choices. There was the stepper, the rowing machine, the skier thing that had an official name he could never remember, free weights and the combo machine for lats and traps and that six pack stomach, which could also be configured for hamstrings. In the end, though, he went for his favorite, the treadmill. This was where he came was Peter was absent, and he was thus not allowed to go into the garden. The assumption was - rightly - that he would try and escape. Given enough time, yes, he could easily have scaled the three metre high walls. Plenty of handholds in old brick and mortar.

Mostly he liked the treadmill because there was a dormer window in front of it. Admittedly with mostly a sky view unless one were up close and personal, and then there was a view of everybody's back garden. No. 14 had a tiny trampoline with mesh around the edges for safety, while across the narrow service passage and into the other back yards he could see barbecue cookers, decks both open and enclosed, one half-laid to concrete patio and lots of potted plants, which was a shame given the size of the garden. Yes, mounted on the wall to the left of the window was a tv, yet John usually preferred to run and daydream that he was outdoors. After awhile the rhythm would take over and he was just running and breathing and that was all that mattered.

He ran through lunch.

He ran until he was trembling with exhaustion.

He ran until he could no longer lift his feet, stumbled and fell heavily onto the floor. Wheezing for breath, he lay on the cool wood in a stupor, wondering if he had finally done enough. If they would find him up here, his body having given up.

As much as he sort of, kind of wished this would happen, he recovered. With shaking hands he pushed himself off the floor, and leaving the ugly jumper behind, made his way downstairs to shower once more. There was a treat in the bedroom, a Yorkie bar Cat had smuggled to him the week before. Obviously she felt for him, pitied him, though she was careful never to speak of his situation in such a way. Nonetheless, this was not the first candy bar she had given him.

The sugar got him through through his second wash of the day. This time he ditched the suitable clothing and went straight for the pyjamas and robe. Thaddeus never had more than one guest in a day, no chance of someone coming across John in less than proper clothing. Once, there had been a party. John had not attended, of course, being newly married, but he understood the party was in honour of their marriage. He wondered if anyone thought it odd he made no appearance. God, if only he had paid attention in school! Or even out of school, then he would know what the social niceties entailed, and whether or not he needed to worry about it. He might even know what the hell he had gotten himself into.

The hallway clock was striking three by the time he made it down to the kitchen for the third time that day. Cat had kindly left him the salad, with two slices of buttered bread and a barely there shaving of ham between them. He checked the microwave - yup, there was the mug of broth. He heated and drank it, because he would hate to get her into trouble on his account. The salad was what the Americans laughingly called a garnish, and having seen what they called a salad, he could only agree. At least the sandwich felt more substantial in his stomach. He washed his dishes and set them in the drying rack, then decided to watch tv until it was time for dinner.

_"He's a lying, cheating skank!"_

_"And you're a bad mother! You smoke cannabis in the house! That bairn runs around covered in dirt!"_

_"You're one to talk, mate! You've never said you loved me! Not ever!"_

_"Be quiet, instantly! Get her off my stage! And you, young man, grow a pair and tell your mother the truth!"_

_"Mum, why'd you do it? Why'd you treat me so bad? What have I ever done to you?"_

_"I wish you'd never been born!"_

John groggily rolled over and felt for the remote. Table…no…floor?

_"Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is a woman who just said she was the best mum ever."_

_"She's the worst, I hate her, I HATE her!"_

_"You shut up, Brian! She's a brilliant mum and it's not her fault you went into care!"_

_"No, you shut up, Mandy! Jerry said you - "_

For god's sake, where was it?

_"My name is Jeremy, that's why it's called the Jeremy Kyle Show-"_

_" — Brian! You can —— off, you —— —— bastard!"_

_"Get off my stage!"_

_"They're both as bad as each other."_

_"Golly Mum, I wonder why that is? Sorry, Jerry, you can see what she's like."_

_"Next we're going to meet the man at the center of this story, but first I need a lie-down in a dark room. See you after the break - "_

John groped behind his back, ah, there it was. He pushed the red button, pushed it again and the sound stopped as the tv turned off. Swinging his feet to the floor, he scrubbed his hands through his hair and yawned. Afternoon programming on ITV Two was always a crapshoot. Sometimes he got a Poirot or Taggart or Midsomer Murders, other times it was The Chase. Jeremy Kyle was good, though. Showed a person that no matter what their problems were, it could always be worse. And speaking of worse - he checked the mantel clock. Early evening. So he was late for dinner. He debated whether or not anyone would care if he showed up deshabille, decided _he_ didn't and shuffled his way to the dining room.

Where a single plate covered with a silver dome was on the table, along with a carafe of water and an empty glass. John uncovered the plate; baked chicken breast with an oily sauce of chopped green herbs and little slivers of lemon rind. He could smelly rosemary and hoped the green was not all rosemary. The stuff was great in small doses, otherwise too strong and everything would taste like soap. A mass of dark wet spinach next to it, slices of fresh tomato with cubes of white which he suspected were mozzarella, a few desultory drops of yellow olive oil sprinkled on top. He devoured the lot and repeated his actions from lunch; down to the kitchen to wash his dishes, then back upstairs for another hour of tv. This time he detoured through the library and snagged The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. Collins' The Gemstone had been enjoyable enough, John figured this one would be little different. His Mum and Dad enjoyed mysteries, so maybe it ran in the genes.

After a minute of scanning the tv listings, John settled on watching a rerun of Jekyll. Beryl Goodman, the nurse who had gotten him through the infection, had loved James Nesbitt and that actress from EastEnders. She generally had good taste in telly, so he was happy to give it a go. An hour later, thoroughly creeped out, he decided it was time for some bedtime reading. Given that the Major and Thaddeus appeared to be elsewhere, he could actually enjoy reading in bed. He stood and stretched, wincing at the ache in his muscles and stitch in his side when he stretched.

_Bald mountains were bitter cold at night. The stars above were bright and clear and John couldn't enjoy them because his fingers were freezing. He continued to pinch the end of the artery, keeping hold of it despite its slipperyness. With his other hand he searched in his emergency Emergency bag for a bull clip. He had taken to carrying a few in his pockets, too, because you never knew when you would need to hold a bandage to a wound, or put keep a flap of skin closed when there was no glue or needle and thread. To the right and slightly up behind a slight, stony rise, Baines and Colton were kneeling, firing in brilliant single bursts towards the hill opposite. Somewhere over there was the sniper who had probably killed DJ with a single round to the thigh. John was not by nature a pessimistic man, yet two years in Afghanistan had taught him different._

_"Peter, hold him down!"_

_John grunted as Baines knocked into his shoulder. "Watch it!"_

_He found the clip, but it felt funny, all rubbery with a stiff inner core, like an amputated finger. He pulled it out of the bag, or was it his pocket? He pulled it out and struggled to get the metal fasteners around the right way, Jesus it was hard to do with just the one hand. "Shit, I can't - not me, you git, keep DJ down. Let go of my fucking hand! Baines, what the fuck are you playing at, LET GO OF ME!"_

_"Sorry, sorry, John, I have to."_

_"Don't apologize to him. Get his wrists - "_

_What? John shook his head and concentrated on keeping the artery between his fingers. It wanted to retract back into DJ's thigh, and if that happened one more time DJ was lost. Unless the miracle of air support happened, that was probably true regardless. John was a doctor, dammit, DJ would be dead when John said he was cold and dead and not a second before. Colton jostled his back and John had enough. "Corporal, just what the fuck do you think you're doing?"_

_"Keep him there, yeah - "_

_The ground beneath John was shifting - shit, was it an earthquake? Landslip? Worse, a mudslide? The weather had been dry for weeks, though - what the fuck? Something grabbed him by the hips -_

And he was wide awake and lunging up and away, or he would have except someone was holding his wrists firmly,their hands on top of his own, their full weight keeping his hands firmly on the mattress. Panting, he looked up - Peter. Who mouthed _Sorry, mate_.

There was someone at his feet, pulling off his pyjama bottoms and he kicked, earning himself a stinging blow to his bare arse.

"Keep still!" shouted Thaddeus.

John futilely pulled against Peter's grasp, but there was nothing he could do, he had no leverage. The bed dipped as Thaddeus kneed John's legs apart, then put his hand on the back of his neck and pushed.

"You know what to do, head down, arse up - "

John felt the wet slide of Thaddeus' prick against his inner thigh and realized an instant later that he was in heat. It must have struck after he had fallen asleep reading The Woman in White. He was still on Thaddeus' bed and he silently cursed to himself. Even though Ella had told him it would change, he thought his sense of smell was the same, and the only thing he could think of was that Thaddeus' pheremones must have triggered the heat. Because John had made himself comfortable in the bed he otherwise was not to inhabit, thinking Thaddeus was away for the night. It was funny in a not-very kind of way, how so much of those ridiculous Omega Street novels his Mum used to read were based on stone cold fact. He _did_ have a cot at the end of Thaddeus' bed. He _was_ rarely allowed out of the house. His every move was _strictly_ controlled for fear he might be bred by a random Alpha off the street. Because God forbid the begats should be corrupted.

"John - " whispered Peter, and that was the only warning he got before the hot iron of Thaddeus' cock split him open. Even juicy with his own natural slick, body ready and willing, it hurt. Thaddeus set a furious rhythm that soon had John gasping into the duvet, his weight on his own elbows as he now willingly clung to Peter's forearms.

"It's alright, it's going to be alright," Peter said, his breath tickling the side of John's neck. "You can make it through this."

Thaddeus came first, leaving John hard and wanting. Which was how Thaddeus liked it best, and god willing the humiliation would end there. Undoubtedly Peter had witnessed worse. It was just, it, it was just that John wanted his shame to be private. Bad enough every single person in the household knew his business, could he not simply have one thing to himself? He lifted his head again, tried to stretch his arms a bit, received another slap to his arse.

"I don't think he's going to stay down, Peter. Get the rope."

"I won't move, I promise!" The words leapt out of John's mouth before he even realized what he was going to say.

"Shut up."

Peter gave John a sympathetic glance, then reached under the bed for the box containing Thaddeus' supplies. When John had first arrived at the house, he had made it quite clear what he found acceptable, and for the most part Thaddeus' abided by his reasoning. Then there were nights like this - perhaps better to say that every heat was like this, more or less. After the first time Thaddeus had tried to tie him up without Peter's help, John had given him a black eye and a split lip. He would have done worse if the opportunity had arisen. Heat was heat, though, and hours later he had found himself physically in too much of a state to protest Thaddeus rolling him over and taking what he wanted. Biologically, at least. He kept himself to himself, otherwise.

Thaddeus preferred rope, real rope made from actual plant fiber. He said he liked the way it made John's skin turn red with irritation, as if John was some kind of prize he could show off the next day. The rope was tight enough to rub John's skin raw. There was no give to it, nor any stretch beyond where John was, so he was pretty much doomed to remain in this position the whole night through unless Thaddeus decided to take him on the floor, leaning against the bed.

Once more, John found himself hoping for another short heat. If he could just come, ease the discomfort, then maybe he could get some sleep while Thaddeus plugged away uselessly at him. Speaking of which, he was starting again. John rested his forehead on the duvet, arching his back so that Thaddeus would maybe hit that little spot inside.

"Do you like it when I fuck you, John? Such a poor excuse for an Omega, but I'll have you absolutely _gagging_ for my cock before the night is through."

And when John woke up and showered in the evening of the next night, his prayers for a short heat fulfilled by some strange and capricious God, he looked at his skinny reflection in the foggy mirror and told himself that there was no shame in begging for something he _did_ actually need. He was a fraction of a second away from punching the mirror when Peter opened the door and called, "John, c'mon, it's time for your dinner."

Flicking the switch on the ancient electric razor, over its buzz he said, "I can actually make it to the kitchen on my own."

"I know. I just do what I'm told, John. "

"Too right," John muttered, tilting his head to angle the razor correctly. "I'll be down shortly."

After shaving, he limped to the closet to retrieve a clean pair of jeans. Halfway through drawing them up his legs, he realized he was far too sore to wear anything but another pair of pyjamas. If the Major hated his lack of formal dining wear he would have to take it up with Thaddeus. At least they were excellent quality, cool and light silk instead of flannel or cotton. He slipped on the robe, too. Gunmetal gray, a match to how he felt. He could pretend it was a fancy smoking jacket instead of an extra layer of phantom protection.

It was funny, really, that when he had been a doctor, he had counseled plenty of men and women over abusive relationships, had handed out pamphlets and leaflets, seen his personal card tucked into back pockets and the toes of shoes, had even called hotlines once or thrice. Yet, here he was, unexpectedly in the same position. Unfortunately for him, he had yet to find a way out. All he needed was one little break and he would be gone.

Peter was waiting for him in the hallway. They began heading down to the dining room, John moving slowly from the pain in his backside and upper back, where he had been stretched out for so long. Peter was only two risers down from John when he abruptly stopped.

Making a quarter-turn so John could only see his profile, he spread his fingers out, inspecting then with a frown. He said, "You don't know what it's like, John, growing up in care. Maybe you get a good one, or get farmed out to foster parents who give a shit, but most of the time, y'know, it's best to put your head down and get through it," He looked up at John with furrowed brows. "It's not that I don't care what happens to you, in there, with him. I can't jeopardize my position here in the house. I left school at 16, and when you leave school you get kicked out of care."

"One of prerequisites, right?" John murmured. "Learn a trade or else."

Peter faced John fully, nodding eagerly. "Yeah, yeah, that's it exactly. Y'can see why I can't do anything for you, right? When your time comes?"

"I know," said John. Knowing the cause of the betrayal did nothing to ease the pain of it. Peter and Cat were the closest he had to family in this place, yet both of them danced to Thaddeus' tune. At least Cat never tried to justify what she did.

"Anyway," Peter scratched the back of his neck, shifted from foot to foot, no mean feat on the narrow riser. "Just needed to say that. You're a fine bloke, John," he glanced up and away quickly. "Most Alpha's'd be proud to have you."

"Yeah, well. Let's get downstairs before my dinner gets any colder."

John padded quietly behind Peter, playing his killing game, idly making notes on how easy it would be to dispose of Peter. One arm around his neck, the other on his forehead, a quick twist. Or a heel to the back of his knee while he was going down the stairs to the first floor. No, he'd have to start from the very top of the house for that one. A gym accident, except Peter was always the spotter when they used the machines or the free weights. The trick of it was to find a way to do it without anyone suspecting. He shook his head. Yes, that was the _point_ , John, in murder, not being caught. The garden did have rather a lot of hollyhocks and foxgloves, there were a few Datura - but again, how to make ingestion seem incidental? He would be suspect no matter what he did or did not do, because the household was so small. Nope , it was impossible. The only person he could take out was himself, and most days he was pretty sure he wanted to live.

They were coming down the main stairwell when Cat raced up, taking the steps two at a time, her hair flying about her head.

"There you are. John! Take off your robe and shirt," she said, reaching for the belt of his robe. "They're in the front parlour."

John clutched it tightly, refusing to give in to her plucking fingers. "What? Cat, no, what's going on?"

"Peter, help me get it off him," she replied.

"Cat!" John stepped back onto the landing, twisted away into the corner where the stair turned.

"Shh! Be quiet!" Cat said, her eyes wide and desperate. "They've got a guest and they want to show you."

"Like a piece of meat? For fuck's sake - " John whispered as Peter crowded him further into the corner, the ornate frame of the long wall mirror digging into his shoulder. He gave up the fight, letting Peter remove the robe while Cat undid his pyjama top buttons and slid it off of his shoulders.

Cat stepped back, staring at his torso. "Oh my God," She said faintly.

John could take no more and pushed between them, the tattered remains of his dignity shrouding him like so much smoke. Down the last bit of stair, the runner soft beneath his feet. Silently down the hall, past the library, the downstairs office, the lounge, the dining room. Near the foyer he paused, steeling himself for whatever was behind the closed door in front of him. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly, knocked once, turned the handle and went in.

The front parlour was a study in Englishness. The walls were papered, an Oriental design in soft greens and blues with a random pattern of of branches, flowers, and yellow birds with a large black spots on their wings. A small secretary had been pushed between the set in book cabinets, both of which had glass doors above the Dado rail. The furniture, a suite upholstered in maroon velvet and a set of library chairs with leather seats at a round wooden table between the windows, sat well with the white marble fireplace and oriental rug on the floor.

Unfortunately the fire was unlit, leaving the room too cool for a man wearing oyster colored silk pyjama bottoms and no shoes on his feet. John took a few steps forward, then came to parade rest. He stared sightlessly at the opposite wall instead of the stranger sitting on the sofa. In his peripheral vision he noted the stranger wore a tailored three piece suit in dark gray, nearly a match to his own gunmetal robe. The man was ginger, and both his tie and pocket were bright teal. Shoes black, or possibly brown.

John really wished he was wearing the top. He was not a vain man, yet he knew what they were seeing, what had made Cat exclaim in shock; the bullet scar, the dark finger marks at his waist, the swollen bite imprints on his shoulders, neck, and chest. The red strips on his wrists. And what they could not see, he felt. The purpling bruises on his buttocks where Thaddeus had struck him repeatedly with his fists, the ache in his right kidney where Thaddeus had 'missed'. Being in front of a lover was one thing, in front of a stranger was something else entirely. Divorcing, _ha,_ divorcing himself from what was happening, he let himself drift away from the rage and shame, the humiliation, even as he listened.

"Father, I don't _care_ ," Thaddeus snapped, standing up and walking to the sideboard. "John's not shown in the three years we've been married. I need an heir and he isn't going to give me one."

"Mr. Holmes, would you care for cognac?" asked the Major, moving to the sideboard as well. "I have a marvelous Camus Cuvee."

"That sounds delightful, Major, thank you."

John missed the Major's answer, trying to get what he could from Mr. Holmes' tone. Posh, obviously. Well-educated, probably had more money than God. Although he had not spoken to John, and John certainly did not expect to speak to him, John could feel the man's sharp gaze upon his person.

"I'm curious, Mr. Holmes, why you want my Omega?" asked Thaddeus. He sipped his drink and then shook his head. "I do apologise, that was a very rude question of me."

"You're certainly entitled," answered Mr. Holmes. He crossed his legs, reached to take the rocks glass offered by the Major.

John wished he had something to drink, too, cold water, or better yet, a beer. He really missed beer.

Mr. Holmes shifted ever so slightly, a change of weight from one side to the other on the sofa. "My brother is in need of a spouse, and John shall do quite nicely if he is agreeable."

Thaddeus snorted. "John, agreeable? Of course he's agreeable. He can't stay here, he simply doesn't suit the family's needs. Besides, before I trained him out of it he was quite the hot head. Always polite about it, the kind who helps little old ladies across the street, he once broke up two people on a date merely because some Alpha slapped his Omega. He's much better behaved, now, as you can see."

A short silence reigned until the Major straightened in the wingback chair that matched the sofa. "I've heard people talk about your brother."

Mr. Holmes languidly waved one hand in dismissal. "People do little else."

Curiouser and curiouser. John blinked, prepared himself to be handled as Mr. Holmes got to his feet and approached him.

"You are a medical doctor?"

John blinked again. Oh, there was a pattern on the tie, a subtle self pattern in paisley.

"Yes, he is. Hasn't practiced since his army days," answered Thaddeus, coming into John's vision as he stepped from behind Mr. Holmes. "He's an outlier, presented in Afghanistan. I just happened to be the Alpha to meet him. You know what they smell like when they first present. Couldn't resist."

Although though John was staring at Mr. Holmes' tie, he could feel Mr. Holmes' gaze penetrating him to the core, and he was helpless against the shiver that ran through him. He broke out in goosepimples as Mr. Holmes circled around him.

"The Army, you say?"

John blinked again, then blurted, "Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Sir."

"He served until he was injured," continued Thaddeus, wandering away to sit on the sofa.

Mr. Holmes appeared on John's other side, then took a seat in the other wingback chair. He tasted his brandy, briefly closed his eyes in pleasure.

"He's a good man," added the Major. "A valuable surgeon whose loss has been irreparable, popular with his fellow soldiers. A crack shot with any weapon he - "

"Yes," interrupted Mr. Holmes. "I've read the report you sent, thank you. And what about you, John. Are you agreeable to joining my household?"

John thought his heart might jump out of his skin, it was beating so hard. The decision was up to him, then? How could make it, never having met the brother? Could he even ask?

"You mean Sherlock's household," said Thaddeus, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

John dared a glance at him and there was the smirk. Thaddeus thinking he was being so smart.

" _My_ household, as I shall be signatory," said Mr. Holmes. Perfectly polite, in that most dismissive manner possible at the same time. "John?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, I've never met your brother."

"No. But you've met me. I can assure you we're nothing alike."

He had to look at Mr. Holmes, then. Eye to eye contact. Holmes gave nothing away, merely regarded him in the same manner as John regarded him. John considered himself a good judge of men and their character. One had to be if one was to go far in the Army, or any armed service.

Mr. Holmes was clearly intelligent, much smarter than either Thaddeus or the Major. A sharp dresser, however John suspected he would be the same no matter what he wore. Mr. Holmes was calm, easy. Too easy. He was…eager? Upset? Hopeful? Resigned? That was it, he was resigned to whatever problem his brother offered, and somehow John could help. Now there was a question. Despite mention of a report, exactly how much did Mr. Holmes know about _John?_

And really, did it matter? John being a medical doctor, having been in the Army, he could provide some sort of service. John would probably be given work in some capacity or another, which might mean he would leave Mr. Holmes' house - oh, oh _yes please_. Or maybe his brother needed constant care, a doctor on call, as it were. His heats would likely still be an issue…and yet. John resumed his gaze at the opposite wall and said, "I'm agreeable."

There was a small, shocked silence - as if neither the Major nor Thaddeus had really thought he would say yes.

"Excellent," Mr. Holmes' shoulders lost their rigidity as he relaxed into his chair. Reaching into his jacket, he brought out an envelope. "I do hope you'll forgive me, Major, but I took the liberty of bringing the papers of dissolution with me, plus the primary contract."

From what John could see, Major Sholto was absolutely stunned by this turn of events. Finally he nodded once, twice, and got to his feet. Meanwhile, Thaddeus was staring at John as if he was an utterly random stranger.

Once again, John's heart began to race. He realized he was breathing through his chest instead of his stomach, and started to count to five on his next inhale, pause, six on the exhale. Oh God, he felt like he might pass out. Control, that was key.

Mr. Holmes said, "Yes, I think he'll be quite suitable."

Thaddeus snorted. "Really? I doubt your brother will tolerate John's sort of nonsense."

"Quite the contrary, Mr. Sholto. Sherlock appreciates those who dabble outside the constraints of polite society."

"Then he'll have his hands full with John. He requires a lot discipline. My man Peter has often complained to me about it."

Mr. Holmes smiled slightly. "I'm sure your man will be greatly relieved not to have John as his responsibility come the morrow."

The world went a little soft at the edges. Tomorrow? He was leaving in the morning? This was going to be his last night here? There was a rumbling in his gut as his bowels turned to water. He licked his lips and wondered if there were any way he could leave without everyone noticing.

Thaddeus was abruptly standing next to him, speaking softly. "You'll come crawling back to me, John. Sherlock Holmes is a freak and a dangerous man. Who knows what kind of sickness hides inside of him. Oh, I suppose you'll find out during your next heat."

"Thaddeus," said the Major, sitting at the card table, reading over the papers. "Please ring for Peter."

John noted Thaddeus' menacing glare towards his father and was glad to be shot of the both of them. Thaddeus would have to find a new target for his rage. John wished Helene the best of luck; she was going to need it.

"It looks to all be in order," announced the Major, standing up and straightening the papers on the table. He went to the Secretary and opened the flap, pulling forward a pen and a small bottle of ink.

Air wafted against John's back, cooler yet and this time, his full body shiver could not be contained. Perspiration broke out on his forehead while his guts churned - _christ!_

"Sir?" said Peter from behind John.

"Mr. Holmes, this is Peter Okorafor. He's our man and official legal witness."

John redoubled his efforts to concentrate on everything that was happening around him instead of what was happening inside of himself. Be in the moment, was what Ella said. Be in the moment, breathe. Witness, let everything wash over you. Bloody well easier said than done.

"Mr. Okorafor," Mr. Holmes unfolded from his chair, inclined his head at Peter. "You're here to witness the dissolution of marriage between John Watson and Thaddeus Sholto."

Peter looked at John, wide-eyed.

John nodded once.

Peter turned back to Mr. Holmes. "Sir."

"You're also here to witness to John joining my household."

"Right, sir," said Peter, rocking back on his heels a little, eyebrows upraised.

"You are surprised?"

John was surprised _Peter_ was surprised. They had gone through three years together with Thaddeus - and given what Peter had admitted on the stairs, what he had seen and _fucking well_ participated in, surely there was no way he could still think John wanted to stay in this house?

"Well…no, but - "

"Good," Mr. Holmes swept one hand towards the Secretary. "Come read the papers, then sign where appropriate. A thumbprint signature will also be necessary."

Weak in the knees, John closed his eyes. This was happening, it was really, really happening, and then he was in his room, being tucked under the covers.

"It's all right, John, you're fine. This kind of panic attack will pass."

"'M fine," he murmured, barely able to open his eyes. "How'd y'get here?"

Ella patted his shoulder. "I happened to be close by."

"Mm, live next door?"

"Something like that."

He was just so damned tired. He needed sleep, wanted sleep. Maybe he said it aloud, because she said,

"I'm hardly astonished, you exercised far too hard, went through a heat without eating, and didn't eat any dinner tonight. Get some rest."

So he closed his eyes, and rested.

 

~*~

 

Morning brought a shower and Peter, carrying a tray with a far too light breakfast of dry toast and warm milk with cinnamon and nutmeg. John choked it down, hoping this was the last time he would be forced to drink the stuff. It was absolutely disgusting and no one above the age of five should have to drink it.

While John ate, Peter packed his few belongings into his Army bag. As he watched Peter move around the room, John concluded that the man was unhappy. "Are you angry with me?"

"Me? No, of course not. Why would I?"

John shrugged. "Dunno. You just seem different."

Peter smiled, the sort of frozen smile that never reached past the lips. He hefted the bag in one hand. "Mr. Holmes said he'd send a car, so I'll just bring this downstairs for you."

John took one last turn around the room. He checked under the bed, looked in the drawers, opened the bathroom cabinet to see what was left behind. His things were gone and it made no appreciable difference in the room whatsoever.

As if he had never been there.

Walking downstairs for the last time, John was reminded of Afghanistan, opening doors during sweeps, finding food cooking and tea steaming yet the people were missing. Human presence notable only in the items left behind. Now the house felt similar, a peculiar kind of emptiness. What made it even stranger was listening to the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards. The current echo of his own past presence - a ghost not yet exorcised.

Cat was not in the kitchen, and Peter was nowhere to be found. Even Thaddeus and the Major were gone, leaving only Ella to wait for him in the foyer. She was wearing the fawn sweater she favored, pairing it with a darker brown skirt and matching pumps, and a sky blue shirt. Hands clasped together, she seemed pleased to see him.

"Your car is here."

John immediately opened the front door, held it open for her, then passed through it himself into an overcast Brighton morning. The smell of the sea was fresh on the strong morning breeze. Seagulls wheeled overhead and the fumes from a passing car nearly made him delirious with happiness. Just beyond the pavement was a black car with tinted windows. The driver got out and opened the rear passenger door, then stood and waited. John was halfway down the steps when Ella spoke again.

"Well, John, this is it."

He stopped and turned to look up at her kind face. She was gazing at him as if she knew secrets about him. Or maybe she was just happy to see him go, to not be her problem any more. He said, "Yup. Off to my new home."

"You're going to be fine, John. Most marriages aren't like this one. Give yourself a chance with Mr. Holmes. And remember the exercises I gave you, they _will_ help if you actually do them."

John attempted a smile, from the look on her face knew it was more of a grimace. Well, dammit, he'd tried to be perfect for her, to do what she wanted, and it had gotten him nowhere. "Thanks, Ella."

He was just about to get into the car when she rushed down the steps.

"John! Here, take my card. If you ever want to talk, please call me."

"I will," he said, even though he had absolutely no intention of doing so. The concern on her face remained visible through the window even after the driver closed the door, then disappeared as the car slowly pulled away from the kerb.

"John! _JOHN!_ "

He sat forward to look back at the house, where Peter was running down the front steps. Nope. Not going to ask the driver to slow down.

John took a deep breath, released it slowly. With only a little trepidation he sat back in his seat. This was it, then.

His new life, part three.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: So…this is my Very First Omegaverse piece, which is not something I ever thought I would write. A week ago I had what I thought was an 8k word story, but I was having a bit of difficulty, it just wasn't coming out the way it felt in my head. I requested a beta - the absolutely MARVELOUS [MartaB](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Marta/pseuds/Marta) \- and had an epiphany at work That Changed Everything. I did not throw out my 8k word story. I did, however, realize that it's actually a treatment, and that I needed to rewrite the whole thing to the length it actually wants to be (a great failing of mine when it comes to fic). So I wrote this in 6 days. I apologize for any spelling or grammatical mistakes. As I work with both American and UK keyboards and English, my spelling is a bit…well, let's just say I can't use spellcheck, because it checks things I _know_ are spelled right. In at least one country…I'm just a little shaky as to _which_ country.
> 
> Anyhoo, my point is that this story has now become a series, a WIP - _cue hysterical laughter/sobbing_ \- that I need to complete over the next few weeks. My plan had been to write this and then work on my first WIP ([A Lamp Amid the Darkness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1160379)), which upon starting, vowed never to do again because the pressure, MY GODS THE PRESSURE. I foresee 4-5 more parts to Night Moves (possibly less, possibly more), and then an unnamed followup, 700 words of which are already written. I'm afraid I do not have a schedule for Night Moves beyond 'I'll try for Monday's', but there's a large section upcoming that I don't really know the details for, and I have to have some ThinkyThoughts time. I mean, other details are already written for that section, it's simply lacking some **[redacted] **.****
> 
>  
> 
> So, my dear cherikiscanon, I hope this little offering will do for right now. I really wanted to have a complete story for you, but, y'know, it just wanted to be more.


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